


drifting

by spideywriting (catch_you_later)



Series: whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Betrayal, Delirium, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Torture, do not copy to another site, no.3, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 00:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catch_you_later/pseuds/spideywriting
Summary: Peter gets kidnapped in the middle of a school day.Or, Peter dislikes his new Biology teacher (and for a really good reason).





	drifting

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betaed

_Up is down._

_Up is down._

_Up. Is. Down._

_Down is up._

_Or is it?_

_He’s floating, so he’s not entirely sure._

_What is he doing here again?_

_He doesn’t know._

_There was something… Something he found out that he was supposed to be worried about, but he’s too jumbled up to remember what it was._

_Peter drifts._

_The next time he’s conscious, he can smell damp concrete, dust and metal._

_Glowing, fluorescent green eyes._

_A deafening crash of a building dropping down on him._

_Crackling of his bones fracturing and breaking under the pressure._

_Wait._

_No._

_He’s not _there_._

_There’s no pressure on his back, no blood dripping to his eyes, no broken bones._

_There is the cold, burning of a knife sliding through muscle and sinew. There are hands squeezing his breath out of his lungs just like the building did. There is the freezing metal keeping his hands and feet in place._

_Before he can open his eyes to see where his actually is, the darkness is pulling him beneath the surface again._

On Thursdays, Peter had the least exciting schedule of all the days.

History, Gym, Geography, Biology and English.

Now, he didn’t _hate_ any of the subjects, not really, he just didn’t like them as much as he did, say, Calculus or Chemistry. And he actually really liked Biology. In fact, it had been one of his favorite subjects last year. They’d had a wonderful teacher, Ms. Garcia who always had such good demonstrations and way of explaining that she made even a genetics class sound really clear and easy.

Unfortunately though, she had changed schools after last semester and they got assigned to Mr. Wright.

Mr. Wright could teach nearly as well as Ms. Garcia, but for some reason, Peter didn’t really like him.

When questioned about it by Ned, he couldn’t even name why exactly he disliked him, he just did. It could be his slightly patronizing teaching style, but he had a feeling that that wasn’t the reason. Or, at least that wasn’t the entire reason, it really did irritate him sometimes.

Like right now, Mr. Wright was droning on and on about a concept they had already gone through last semester, because he thought they were so dumb that they had already forgotten it. If it were a more complex subject, Peter would’ve understood the need for a rehash. But it was fricking _cell composition_. They had learnt that ages ago!

And so it was, that Peter uncharacteristically spent the whole class drawing up new versions of web solution into the back pages of his Biology notebook. He’d need to rip them out and hide them with the others later, but right now, he’d rather do something actually _useful_. Lately he’d been trying to design a waterproof web for if he ever needed to stick to things underwater (unlikely, but possible) and didn’t want the webs to dissolve too quickly or simply not stuck to things, and now he had just been able to figure out the right hydrophobic fluid to mix with the rest of the web solution. He was uncapping his pen to quickly write the formula down so he wouldn’t forget it, when his spidey-sense tingled.

He slammed his notebooks to the right page just in time for Mr. Wright to see the glaring emptiness where his notes of this class should’ve been.

“And since Mr. Parker has decided he is above such menial topics as nucleus or mitochondria, he will be staying after class for a thorough discussion on _why_ he has decided so,” he paused to announce before continuing his monologue.

Peter winced, half-guilty, half-disgruntled and sat back, resignedly settling in to wait for the end of the class. As the clock rang, he stood up as slowly as he could, gathered his supplies and shuffled to the front of the classroom.

Mr. Wright waited until the last of Peter's classmates had left before he got up from his chair and closed the door.

As the lock clicked, Peter could feel a frisson of unease tickling the back of his neck.

Mr. Wright marched back behind his desk, opened one drawer and motioned for Peter to come closer.

Dragging his feet a bit, Peter moved. He can feel the crawling anxiety growing stronger with every step. When he stops in front of the desk, Mr. Wright looks up at him with blank, almost lifeless eyes before stating, “Give me your notebook.”

Peter is immediately wary.

“Why?” He can’t give up his notebook, the notes for web fluid are still there.

“Because I’ll be writing a note to your guardian in there and I expect you to return it to me signed by them,” Mr. Wright explains.

Peter can’t really find a good reason not to hand over his notebook without revealing himself, so he swings his backpack over to his front and – without taking his eyes off the Mr. Wright – he digs up his notebook.

Very, very reluctantly Peter extends his hand—

—and retracts it just as a spike is shoved through the place where it just had been.

"You have good instincts," the teacher grins and faster than Peter can process this sudden turn of events, the spike (or is it a dart?) is out of the table and stabbed into his arm.

He can feel his body starting to flinch back, a second too late, as the world starts to blur.

Mr. Wright walking around the table towards him is the last thing he hears.

_He doesn’t know how much time has passed._

_The only thing he knows is pain._

_It comes in many different variations._

_Sometimes he burns._

_Sometimes he drowns._

_Sometimes he chokes._

_There are knives, spikes, blood-slick skin, raw throat, bones broken and rebroken, splintered into tinier and tinier pieces until he feels like there’s nothing left of them, of him. _

_Just raw pain._

On his most coherent moments, he remembers he was a person once.

A person that felt more than pain. That _was_ more than pain.

He vaguely remembers laughter. Thai nights. He remembers liking building and creating stuff.

A warm hug that smelled like home.

(Those memories always seem to come whenever he’s feeling again and it’s so cold that he’s quaking painfully. They make him forget the cold.)

A warm voice, just as home-y as the hug, calling him ‘buddy’ and ‘kid’ and ‘Underoos’.

(These memories come whenever the pain is at its highest point, distracting him, making him forget the outside world and lose himself in the exact recollection, reenactment of the memory. The voice makes him feel strong. Safe. So he crafts an armor out of it, surrounding himself, protecting himself with it.)

With that voice comes the memories of weightless swinging through the air, the feeling of absolute freedom and rightness, as well as the nagging thought that he should be _doing_ something. Something important.

(But whenever he gets to the last thought, he can feel something cold crashing into him (_he's fighting again, quick, up the dosage!_) and washing the thoughts and memories and everything else away.)

_Peter drifts._

Until he doesn’t.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he can feel himself materialize again, being pulled to the surface from whatever liminal space he had been floating in.

He can feel his hands, his feet, his toes. His legs, his arms, his lungs expanding and his _entire body_ throbbing and pulsing with pain and _ow_, that’s something he’s not sure he _wants_ to feel, as nice as it is to properly feel again.

As he gains more and more of his senses, he becomes aware of a soft, rhythmic, mechanical beeping that screams _hospital_ as well as a heartbeat and a corresponding breathing pattern that are not _his_.

He tenses for a second, the mechanical beeping speeding up for a bit, before he realizes that he _knows_ this heartbeat. And simultaneously with this realization comes the familiar scent of metal and cologne and motor oil.

Safety.

Home.

The tension melts away, but apparently the accelerated beeping already woke up the other occupant of the room.

“Peter?”

He lets the concerned voice wrap around him like a comfort blanket, memorizing the unique inflections and tones of the voice, and letting them refresh the worn out renditions.

“Mmmh. M’r. St’k,” the name comes to his lips automatically, easily discernible despite his scratchy voice and numb lips.

There’s a choking breath, and a relieved, “_Peter_,” before he’s wrapped in a tight, warm, but still very careful hug.

He sighs contentedly, and relaxes.

He’s safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please drop a kudo and/or a comment if you liked this!
> 
> Also, I posted this without editing it (I'm way too tired for it now), so please tell me if there are any mistakes and I will correct them.


End file.
